Keep Spinning
by KandyKitten
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is dead and the world keeps spinning. London and the NSY are torn between accusing and redeeming; John Watson knows Sherlock is innocent, but doesn't know how to prove it. Six month after the Fall, he does the only thing he can do to move on: he writes his story... Set between Sherlock's death and return, rated T for death and drug use Officially AU after season 3
1. Introduction

Discl: Sherlock doesn't belong to me, and I don't make profit with this work

* * *

**The personal blog of Dr John H. Watson, February 23****th**

**Six month later**

_The first day Sherlock did not occupy at least one line on at least one front page was a Friday and it was three month after his death._

_The next week, he was barely mentioned anymore, then his name only fell in association with Kitty Riley's trial, but it became less and less frequent. In fact, he has not been mentioned anywhere for five weeks now. I guess it is truly over, then. _

_But is it? I don't think I will move back into Baker Street, so that part of my life is over. I will never assist in any case again, unless some victim met me to have his cold treated. No more New Scotland Yard, no more chasing criminals through dark alleys, no more bribing homeless people for information. And still, I believe it will never be over for me. _

_There still are loose ends to wrap up. There is Kitty Riley, who still is on trial. There still are stories to tell. Some are great, I can assure you. And I will tell them, be it only so someone will remember. _

_Today, Baker Street 221B still lies empty, the police struggles to keep up with the constantly rising crime rate and if I don't sit in my day job, I sit at home and stare at the cursor. It was the end of those horrible four months, June to October, in which Sherlock Holmes, the man who only needed eighteen months to change my entire life to the better, was discredited, died, got torn apart by the papers and finally fully redeemed, only to be forgotten two weeks later, shoved aside in favour of new sensations. But maybe I should start the story from the beginning. _

_I told you my…no, our version of Sherlock's fall, from the figurative to the literal. Maybe it is time now to tell you about mine..._

* * *

So, this has been floating in my head for a while and I finally decided to write it up. In later chapters, the Italics would be the blog, while normal script would be the rest of the world. If there's anybody interested, just leave a comment! Thank you!

Lots of Love, KandyKitten


	2. June 10th

**_The personal blog of Dr John H. Watson, March 04_****_th_**

_It is harder to start this than I imagined it would be. Partially, it is so hard because it opens wounds I hoped closed. But also…I do not remember much. _

_If you have ever been in a state of absolute shock, then you know what I mean. You see everything, but you see nothing. You hear someone talking to you, but the words are lost the second you hear them. You are cold, completely numb. Your time sense goes awry, everything moves in slow motion, and hour pass in minutes. _

_It is as if the world is nothing but a screen and you are only watching. Nothing seems real anymore, but you know it is. _

_And you remember, but you don't._

_Is that too philosophical? Maybe. But I find no better words to tell you how I felt left standing at the hospital's entrance while Sherlock's body was wheeled inside. I know I must have stood there for a while, staring at the blood on the concrete. I know Lestrade came, and I know he tried talking to me. I barely remember what he said…I know I told him Sherlock's dead…I know I walked inside at some point…getting treated…and them I remember the NSY, being in an interrogation room, and I remember that I noticed only three hours had passed, while I thought it must have been at least ten. _

_I remember they questioned me for days….I remember I was home the same evening. _

_I don't know much about the questions they asked me, and to this very day I wonder why they questioned my when I suffered from a light concussion and an obvious shock. _

_To be fair, it wasn't that obvious after all. I looked into the protocol when the Chief Superintendent threatened me with a hearing because of my attack, and, surprisingly, my answers were all very coherent and detailed. A little coarse, maybe, when they wouldn't shut up about the fraud-bullshit, but I think I can be forgiven for that, can't I?_

_Anyways, the only thing I do remember clearly is that Dimmock, who was questioning me then, told me they had found Moriarty's body…he said Richard Brook, but I guess, it all meant the same…and I remember saying 'good'. _

_It wasn't the smartest move, maybe, but it was the full, honest truth. _

_And here I went, writing a full summary when I tried writing an introduction. But I promised myself...this will not be another story. I have had enough of stories and fairy tales. This is what my psychologist told me to do. I write what comes into my head, and I hope it changes some opinions out there…or, at least, fastens the believe of the smart people out there, those who know it all was true. _

_Well then, let me begin…._

* * *

June 10th, St. Bartholomew's Hospital

What brought them to Saint Bartholomew's were two calls: One, there had been a jumper. Second, a security officer had seen John Watson standing at the back gate.

A connection between the two calls, only two minutes apart, seemed so far-fetched Lestrade never made it.

He didn't even made it when he reached John and tried to speak to him and got nothing but a blank stare going through him, still trying to look at the blood the jumper (Dimmock had rushed past them, gone inside to take the case) had left on the concrete.

"Where's Sherlock?" Lestrade asked, but John didn't answer. He simply stared past them. "John, where's Sherlock?" This silence was disturbing him and he grabbed John's arm in an almost desperate attempt to catch his attention. "Is he inside?"

Finally, there was a reaction. John looked up from the puddles of blood he had been staring at, but still, the eyes that looked at Lestrade now were barely focused, nothing but glassy, lifeless marbles…though they shimmered with a veil of tears.

Lestrade felt guilt clamping his stomach, but nevertheless, when John jerkily nodded, a small part of him couldn't help but to be relived. His job was saved if he brought Sherlock in…and Sherlock surely would be able to prove he was not guilty. "Where?" he pressed on, giving John a small shake as he didn't answer. "John, don't make this worse for you. Where is he?"

John looked at him, at the floor, and shook his head. Lestrade thought it meant 'I won't tell.'

Cursing silently, he let go of the other man's shoulders. Something, he called it guilt even though he knew it was a form of self-disgust - John, wounded and bleeding and in trouble and still so loyal and it tore his heart apart that he couldn't be like this - tried to paralyze him, but he turned away and towards the door…

His hand was on the door handle when John finally spoke up, his voice flat and small. "You're too late."

Lestrade looked at him. John's eyes were still glassy, but at least, he had lifted his gaze. "What do you mean, we're too late?" Had Sherlock just dropped John off after he had gotten wounded somehow? "Where did he go? Did he tell you, John?"

"Lestrade…"

"John, I know you only want to help him, but letting him become a fugitive won't…"

"Greg. Sherlock, he…" John broke of and swallowed, his voice became shaky, high, and Lestrade still didn't get it. "He's dead."

Lestrade stood there, gaping. He could feel his mouth opening and closing like a fish – and that was almost exactly how he felt, like a trout that had been dragged out of the water and thrown onto the cold floor, the world a place he didn't understand, because it couldn't be…

"He's dead," John repeated, as if he had to convince himself. "He jum…he fell."

Fell. And suddenly, everything clicked into place. The jumper. Sherlock was the dead jumper.

Except, he couldn't be. It was impossible. Absolutely impossible.

He was still standing there, just staring, when a nurse shoved him aside to usher John inside – the blood in his hair that Lestrade had noticed, but ignored, apparently was from a wound on his head – he still stood there when Dimmock came back out with obvious shock contorting his features and helplessly stared back, and he still stood like this when a car came to a stop with screeching tires and Donovan jumped out.

He was not clear enough to tell her what had happened, but, luckily, a headshake kept her from asking anything. At least so far.

She even was silent when the entrance doors swung open again, revealing John in his old leather jacket, staring into the world as if he wasn't seeing it…except, he seemed to see them. And then, something about him…changed.

Slumped shoulders straightened. His head rose. His back stiffened. His chest puffed out just a bit. And then, John walked up to them, stopped, stood still and folded his hands behind his back, completing the stiff, but somehow natural-looking military posture he had schooled his body into. His face was neutral and calm, perfecting the picture of the calm soldier. It was so far from the shocked, pained horror that had twisted his face earlier that Lestrade was worried about how deep exactly John had gone into shock.

Before he could say anything, though, John already nodded at the newcomers and turned to Dimmock. "You will bring me in, then?"

For a moment, both men could only stand there gaping, then Dimmock managed to find his voice. "I don't…No, I won't. I'm here about…another case, .but I'll have to debrief you once we're at the station."

"Right." Even John's voice had become calm and clipped. "Can we put it behind us, then?"

"Now, just…just wait a second." Donovan stepped forward and Lestrade willed her, with all the power he had left, to keep quiet. He didn't have much power left, though. She still spoke, asking what had been going through her mind since she had arrived. "Just you? Where's the freak?"

Something flickered over John's face at that, but he kept calm. "I'm afraid you'll have to settle with the sidekick, Detective," he friendly said. "Sherlock's dead. Congratulations."

And then, while Donovan was still sputtering in shock, gaping at him and at the three men openly, disbelievingly –the last curveball Sherlock would ever throw them, and it was one hell of a throw – he turned back at Lestrade, openly looked into his face (though his eyes did not look, his eyes were still distant, still glassy, still seeing something invisible to everyone else) and raised his chin.

"Shall we go, then?"

Incapable of speaking, Lestrade gestured to the car and as he watched John open the back door with unshaking hands, definitely retreating into his famous we-versus-them military calm, he suddenly wondered not how, but when exactly they had become John's enemies.

* * *

**_The personal blog of Dr John H. Watson, March 04_****_th_****_, cdt. _**

_I brought Mrs Hudson home after she was done being questioned. It was hard to wait. I stood in the foyer and everybody who passed me stared at me. Anderson even stopped for a moment when he came in, looked at me as if he wanted to say something, but then, he didn't._

_I think it was for the better. If he had said something disrespectful, I might have hit him, too…and I think, even 'sorry' would have seemed disrespectful to me in that moment. What right would he have had? I have to hand it to him, though: He restrained himself even though I know he wanted to rub my face in it. Later, he did…but I'll tell you about that when I get there. Back then, he looked at me for a moment and walked away._

_Anyways, when I was allowed, I brought her back to Baker Street. In a taxi, of course. I think I ended up in a taxi every time I went anywhere with Sherlock…I remember thinking, 'it started with a taxi ride, now it ends with one'. It didn't end there, of course._

_I don't remember who paid the driver. It might have been Lestrade at the station, but I don't know. _

_We were in her flat, first. I made us tea. While I did it, it found fingers in the fridge, grey powder in the sugar box and chemically distorted spoons and I first began recognizing what would still take me a while to fully grasp: I would not be able to stay here for long. Not without him. I could never bear to see all the signs that he had been here, the bullet holes, the burn holes, the occasional holey body parts (weird as that may sound). _

_We talked little – she said she expected him to barge though the doors any second now and I said I couldn't believe it because he was supposed to outlive god – and then, we both felt like crying. Neither of us managed to finish their tea. We both felt too sick._

_The silence was pressing down on me, but I didn't want to leave her alone, so we just sat there, trying to wrap our minds around the fact that Sherlock Holmes was gone. It was not before midnight that I finally found it in me to excuse myself, remove the dishes and hug Mrs Hudson tightly before leaving her alone._

_Back then, I pretended it was because I felt she needed to be alone…but in fact, it was me who needed to mourn by myself._

_I swayed on my way up the stairs. My left hand was almost trembling too hard to shove the key into the hole. It worried me a little, I feared I might slip back into what I was before Sherlock, but a look on my right confirmed that it was shaking just as hard. Actually, my whole body was. It is normal, but I never thought I would ever experience it again. _

_I'm still not sure how, but I managed to get into the living room without falling over something, even though my vision was completely blurred. I think I just stood there, taking in the scenery, the stuff cluttered over the table, the violin on the windowsill, the empty armchair, the blanket he had worn wrapped around his shoulders yesterday morning now hanging down over its back. _

_It was too much. _

_It is a bit of a blur, but I think I picked up the stupid Union Jack pillow first and threw it against the wall, closely followed by books, a remote, my cell and everything else I could reach. A glass, a newspaper, my gun, it didn't matter. It wasn't really helping, but I went on, screaming and yelling and cursing everyone without realizing it then and when there was nothing left to throw around but the ashtray he had taken from Buckingham Palace, I dropped down right where I stood._

_I'm not ashamed to say I cried. I cried for hours, in fact, until the sun rose again._

* * *

Thank you for reading. If anything caught you interest, plase review! Lots of Love, KandyKitten


	3. June 11th

**_John Watson's personal blog, March 05_****_th_**

_When I was dome with my tantrum, I just sat there and watched light and shadow wandering over floor and walls as the sun wandered over the sky. _

_I didn't move all day, not when my phone rang – I think it was Mike wanting to give his condolences – not when Mrs Hudson knocked and carefully asked if I needed something, anything at all, not when Lestrade knocked much more forcefully and asked if he could come in. _

_I wonder if I should have yelled something, but back then, I didn't bother to answer to bloody git._

_I almost waited for Mycroft to appear, but he never came. I wonder if he didn't want to face me after he had fucked up like that, but maybe he just thought I needed my space. Wouldn't it be funny if Mycroft Holmes knew me better than Lestrade, Mike and Mrs Hudson? On the other hand, he __is__ a Holmes. The man probably knows me better than I know myself._

_Anyways, what I mean to say is that I didn't wake from my stupor all day. _

_When the night had fallen again – I was used to work at night after Afghanistan and living with the never-sleeping Sherlock – and started to clean up the things I had scattered and shattered all over the room. I cut myself on the shards once or twice, but I went on. _

_I had never felt so completely exhausted. I had never fallen asleep on the couch – that had been the place where Sherlock would crash after a case or in a long period of boredom – but this time I did, head on the Union Jack pillow. _

_I didn't take the blanket Sherlock had always used, even though it was a little cold. I had forgotten to turn the heater on. Maybe it was stupid, but taking it did not feel right. It was his, and we usually kept our fingers away from the stuff of the other…except that, of course, we didn't. _

_Today, I know that I would have taken the bloody afghan if Sherlock had still been alive._

* * *

New Scotland Yard, June 11th

The situation was surreal.

Sally Donovan had never actively wanted Sherlock dead. She had only…well, she had wished he would find another bunch of officers he could annoy, or give up his job entirely and never enter her life again; a part of her (and what a horrible thought it was) had wished he'd be caught planning a crime, or, even better, that he would simply go, vanish, fall off the face of the earth; just…not be there anymore.

But she had never once thought 'I wish he was dead'.

And now that she stood over his body, Sally felt…

_Sherlock's dead. Congratulations. _

…admittedly, she didn't know what she was feeling. A tinge of disappointment – she hadn't viewed the Freak as one to go without a fight. A slice of anger – mostly on the behalf of John and this girl from the morgue. A bit smugness – this was proof he'd been a fraud, wasn't it? They hadn't had much before, but this? A tiny hint of relief – no more crazy, faked crimes – clashing with the sorrow of what was to come. Maybe, deep down, even a touch of sadness.

But over all of this lay the feeling of _unreality_, the incomprehensible thought of someone who had become such a constant, who had sneaked into their jobs and talks and thoughts so completely suddenly dropping out of their lives; dampening every feeling, muffling them into a bland nothing.

The body's skin had been cleaned, but Sally's eyes, schooled to see certain things, still found the traces of blood in his hair, the brownish-red color of rust like highlights in the black hair.

There would be no more haughty voice uttering demeaning comments, their crime scenes would be _their_ crime scenes again, they wouldn't have to go begging the Freak to give back evidence…their lives would become much easier from now on.

_Sherlock's dead_, she thought again.

_Congratulations_, she thought, John's voice cold, dead and cutting even in her mind.

He had congratulated her…for what?

She looked at the prone body again, mostly hidden under a sheet, only his protruding collarbones and his face - lax, much younger than she had ever seen it, almost boyish without his piercing eyes open – visible. Just seeing him like that, nothing hinted at what a giant, bloody, annoying, arrogant git he really was (had been, _had been_, she'd need to remember that).

There was nothing to congratulate for. She had archived nothing, because she had not wanted this. She had never wanted him dead. Never wished him dead. Hadn't forced him to jump. She wasn't mourning, not over a criminal…

…._but what if he wasn't; even though he planned some of those crimes, he couldn't have planned all of them, he had instinct, a good eye, he deserved punishment, but death?_

…but there was nothing that justified congratulation.

Somewhere in the distance, a door slammed. Sally flinched and tore her gaze away from the body, hastily looking around in the empty, bright room. Blood was pounding in her ears, her muscles were tense – flight-ready.

John probably still had to identify the body. He might be coming today. Sally was not above admitting it: She feared the confrontation.

A last glance on Hastily, she made her retreat. Her heels clacked loudly, so loud she was sure it could be heard all over the hospital. The door, usually so silent, no seemed to creak, a sound from a horror movie. Someone, a small, mousy women she definitely had seen before stared at her when she passed, but Sally didn't stay long enough for her to ask anything.

Once outside, she stood for a moment, taking a deep breath.

It was over. This whole mess, Richard-Moriarty-Brooks, Sherlock, crazy, impossible crimes, annoyance every week, every day, was over now and never come again. Her life could take its regular course once more. Sherlock Holmes was gone.

_Congratulations. _


	4. June 25th

**_John Watson's personal blog, March 09_****_th_******

_I know I wanted to post every day, but this part...this part was, apart from starting this at all, the hardest part. I didn't know how to put it in the right words. I still don't but I'll try my best._

_The funeral…the day was, of course, grey and chilly, what seems very stereotypical, but at least it didn't rain. We kept it as secret as possible, meaning, I didn't post the date and none of the newspapers was supposed to know. Thanks to Mycroft, probably, it almost worked. There were a few paparazzo – bloody vultures – but the really big hype was avoided. Honestly, I had expected myself, Molly, Mycroft if we got lucky and maybe Sherlock's parents…if they even exist, I mean. I didn't meet them, now that I think of it…there were people who remotely looked like him and who I __think__ left with Mycroft later, but I never got a good look. Strange, isn't it…but that's not the point._

_The point is there were many people. More than I thought. _

_I have no idea how they knew where to go. Sherlock had quite a network – homeless people, street artists (or those who think they are), former clients – and today, I think the place and date were passed through the grapevine somehow. Maybe the sprayers hid clues in their paintings, I don't know. Anyhow, the people were there._

_At first I thought they were some kind of demonstrates…I was close to getting angry, but then…then, I realized that those who had come were those who believed. _

_Sherlock probably would not have appreciated it. All that sentimentalism, all the tears, the flowers._

_Some people held speeches. Mostly those, who had been former clients, some who knew him. Raz and a friend of his started. They began with how they met Sherlock, and they finished by saying they still believed…believed in him. I'm not sure if I ever felt that thankful._

_After that, there was no stopping. Some people cried, others were perfectly calm, but they all had incredible, horrible, funny stories to tell. Some of them, I knew and already had posted, but others were completely new and I loved all of them._

_There were some others, of course, those who were just there to see the fraud's blind fellowship. I heard one or two of the paparazzo muttering ugly comments, but right now, I could accept it. I think, when I saw how many people Sherlock touched and convinced even before he was famous, I knew that someone like Moriarty must have left some kind of traces. It would cost some time, maybe years (it wasn't years, in the end, but still not fast enough) but they would find proof. _

_And then, I'd be the one laughing, though the joke really would be on me. Or rather on Sherlock. _

_When it was my turn to speak, I didn't know what to say. Most things, I had already posted on the blog, and I wasn't sure if I had anything else to say that would be relevant. Not even under fire had I been so nervous as when I stood in front of this expecting crowd…but then, I saw no one else but Lestrade in the last row and the words just started to flow._

_I'm not sure if I wanted to convince him all those people here were right or if I just wanted to tell him what kind of men he had basically helped killing. A part of me admired it – he must have known people wouldn't want him there, but he came to pay his last respects._

_So I talked, and it must have been good (even though the internet community – yes, you can see it on Youtube and on a dozen other blogs – is still arguing if I'm "heartbreakingly loyal" or "amazingly stupid"), because some people cried and complimented me afterwards. _

_Mrs Hudson couldn't talk, but Molly spoke, too, and she held herself miraculously well. Only in the end, when it all was done, the crowd spread and people came to me to tell me how sorry they were, she looked at me strangely and suddenly started to cry. I wanted to go to her, but I was crowded and she ran away before I could attempt to reach her. _

_I met an old friend of ours, though. I can't tell you her name, she wouldn't appreciate it. I know, that could be more than one person, but it has to be enough when I say I was touched and I thank her for coming…for proving to me, one last time, that Sherlock truly had been able to do the impossible._

_Lestrade didn't say a word. He waited until I was almost alone before he stepped up to me. We just stood there for a while, looking at each other warily. He thought I might hit him and I thought I might hit him, but in the end, I challenged him in a different way. I asked, "Do you believe us?"_

_He said: "Most of me does. Bloody hell, maybe more than that. But…he was just so __impossible__, you know? He couldn't have existed."_

_I said: "If anyone else told me they didn't truly believe, I'd __politely__ ask them to go. You, I ask to keep digging. I haven't forgotten you tried to help us when it looked bad…now, don't stop."_

_A part of me hoped it would make things better. I thought if he could help me restore Sherlock's reputation…if Moriarty's network was revealed…if I knew that overzealous, unscrupulous bitch going by the name of Kitty Riley was punished…it would make things easier. _

_He didn't answer me. I guess he didn't know what to say. I didn't give him much time to think, either. I just left, walked away and left him standing there. He did get the message and he kept digging and he did find some clue, after a while…but, maybe, I'll tell you that later. _

_What is important now is that when I left, the sprayer gang drove me to a building. The owner had wanted to build up some youth centre there, and he allowed them to paint the walls in every way they wanted, unless it was racist or pornographic. They showed me what they had done with the largest wall and to this very day I don't know how to express what I felt when I saw it. _

_It is still there, by the way: a beautiful abstract painting, mostly dark colours, meshing together items and symbols and written passages that revolved around Sherlock and his cases, and, above, in screaming neon yellow, the words 'I BELIEVE IN SHERLOCK HOLMES'. _

_I was always a little surprised no one ever got in trouble for that, especially when the slogan started appearing all over town, but I guess the first articles doubting Rich and Kitty just came fast enough. _

* * *

June 25th, New Scotland Yard

He had been there the day of Sherlock's funeral, and when Lestrade came back into the bureau three days later, Phillip Anderson, once again, was at Sally's desk.

They should have been comparing notes on a murder – an old woman, a burglary gone wrong, most likely, found in her flat – but that morning, they were drinking a cup of coffee (he hadn't paid hers this time) and half-heartedly discussed what exactly could have been stolen (the safe opened, her jewelry was seemingly untouched, money still in the purse), but the second he set eyes on Lestrade, he immediately forgot what he had wanted to say. Sally looked up from her cup when his voice suddenly trailed off, followed his gaze and stilled.

Lestrade looked different.

Yesterday, when he had left early, his face had looked haggard, pale, the face of a man who had completely lost his way. Overnight, hard determination had re-entered his features, his jaw was set and his pace had returned to his usual, fast, confident strides.

Phillip opened his mouth to greet, but Lestrade passed them without casting a glance into their direction.

"He's still angry, then?"

Sally made a sound that was between a sigh and a scoff; but Phillip knew her good enough to notice she was upset. "Still pouting," she said pretend-callously. "One could think it was our fault he invited a civilian – a psychopathic…"

"Sociopathic," Phillip corrected her absently. It had become a joke between them after Phillip himself had violently been corrected by the psycho…sorry, _sociopath_ in question, but today, he wasn't entirely sure how he meant it.

"Sociopathic," Sally sardonically repeated, stressing the first two syllables. "Fine: invited a sociopathic amateur into closed crime scenes. Even if the Freak hadn't been a fraud, he would have had to answer for that eventually."

Phillip looked at her, though his mind still was elsewhere. She was a handsome woman – maybe even beautiful, not breathtakingly so, but still – and he couldn't deny he'd been attracted to her from day one. He enjoyed their affair, the sex _and_ the talks, both of which gave him some warmth after his marriage had so thoroughly failed (they hadn't separated yet, but they also hadn't been intimate in any sense of the word for over a year now and if she wasn't having an affair, too, he'd immediately quit his job). He valued Sally, and he liked her and he didn't want to argue with her…

"Well, he did point out he was working for us at that press conference." He had meant to leave it at that, it was almost too much anyways, but the words were out before he could stop them. "Do you believe it was all a lie?"

"What?" Sally put down the cup a little too harshly. "You mean you believe that Moriarty-King-Of-The-Criminals…bullshit? You, of all people?"

"Well…no." He hated it when she put him in the defensive. "It's just….Sally, I don't know. He couldn't have staged everything. Especially not with John around all day, every day."

Sally sighed. "Phil. We have proof. We have Brook's live story. We have…enough."

Phil nodded…but half-heartedly. The problem was – and Sally knew it, too – that they didn't have proof. They had a Richard Brook, a reporter who despised Holmes and a screaming girl. Nothing more.

Still, he shrugged and decided to let the topic drop for now. "You're probably right. Ready to share with the boss?"

He had actually thought they would forget about Holmes for the next few hours (it was hard to forget outside of the station, the newspapers still speculated hover the how and why every day), but the moment they entered Lestrade's office to share what Forensics had found out, he saw it: A close-up of Holmes' face, eyes closed, blood still splotched in his hair.

None of them mentioned it, but Phillip knew what it meant…and what he had to do.

The mail had come this morning, surprisingly early, but until now, he hadn't been sure what to do with it. Now, he did. The second he had the possibility to take a break, he opened the file, printed everything (even more than he had asked), stuffed the papers into a folder and made his way to Lestrade.

The man looked up warily when he knocked, but waved him in anyways.

Phillip entered, closed the door behind him and stopped. He had been certain that this was right, but now, he didn't know what to say. Finally, he settled for: "So you work Holmes' case now, too?"

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Listen Anderson, I know what you want to say, but I really don't care for your opinion right now. I think it's the right thing to do, and I think we owe it to him after he solved half our crimes for us and even though I doubted for a moment, now I don't. So I will look into the case myself and if you have any respect left for me, you won't go to…"

"Sir…sir, no wait." That Lestrade believed he might report him again stung. They had really destroyed all the trust their superior had had in them. "I…well. I called a friend of mine, in IT. I had him take a look and he…" He stretched out the folder and waited until Lestrade had taken it. "He found something."

Lestrade frowned at him, but then, he opened the folder…and his eyes widened almost comically. "This.."

"Yes. The pictures of the storyteller were all supposedly taken in 2001, but in fact, they were uploaded in 2003. Also, they called the Agency he was supposedly working for, and then the Network, and they had a 'Storyteller', but his name was 'Donald Burke'. Someone faked the pictures and the entire curriculum vitae.." Phillip took a deep breath before going on. "It seems like…Richard Brook was a fake."

Lestrade slowly looked up to stare at him. "The DVDs?"

"They haven't found out how that was done, yet. But if we could make it official – if we could make it our case – we have better resources, and then…" He trailed off and shrugged. His face felt hot, burning in shame. Admitting he might have been completely wrong was harder than he had thought.

"When? Anderson, when did you find out about this? This must have taken a week to put together, if not longer!"

"I, uh…I asked for that three days ago. It was very fast, they...had help from some specialist who worked the case voluntarily." Phillip just hoped Lestrade wouldn't put together why he had started to ask questions. "The mail came this morning."

A sly look sneaked onto Lestrade's face. "The day of Sherlock's funeral," he concluded. "And why, exactly, did you change your opinion that day?"

Phillip hesitated. Should he tell Lestrade how guilt had been eating away at him – the knowledge he had helped driving a man to death? How he had stood in the crowd that day, a hood over his head, feeling out of place and afraid someone (especially John) might notice him, feeling as if he didn't have the right to be here; a feeling that just strengthened with every new story told? How he had thought about it, about every case they had had with Holmes; how he had started to fear that maybe, just maybe, he had been so petty that he had let his wounded pride blind him against the truth? How he feared he had, by default, helped killing an innocent man?

When it had been silent for too long, he looked up and settled for a half-truth. "It was the name."

"Now you start talking in riddles, too?"

"I…" Phillip squirmed a little. "I remembered that 'Study in Pink' case, especially this Rache-Rachel-thing, and then, it occurred to me: What if this time, it was a German word?"

Lestrade's voice suddenly became very flat. "What do you mean?"

"See…the name…Richard Brook…if you translate it to German…Rich becomes 'Reich', and Brook becomes 'Bach'. And that, very loosely…"

"Reichenbach." Lestrade dropped back into his chair, wiping a hand over his face. "The Reichenbach hero. Oh hell. He was telling us. He was rubbing our faces into it that whole time."

Phillip didn't know what to say, so he just nodded.

Finally, Lestrade sat up again and fixed Phillip, scanning him very thoroughly. "And now, you want to help me restore Sherlock's reputation and take apart Rich Brook, Miss Riley, and everyone else involved. Is that right?"

"I still don't like him," Phillip said, grinning hopefully, but Lestrade didn't laugh. "But if he's innocent, he deserves it." A long pause. "John and Mrs Hudson deserve to know."

Lestrade sighed deeply and started to skim through the folder. "Phillip," he calmly said, "I think _they_ already know."

And that, Phillip truly couldn't argue with.


End file.
